A Fighting Chance

I come from a family of fighters.

There’s my maternal grandfather, the sole survivor of his family. We grew up with stories of hiding in attics, basements, forests. I knew the narrative well, and already as a little girl, trained myself in the art of invisibility.

I figured out the best places in my home in case Nazis ever invaded again; I imagined myself running to the “forest” next to our home — a narrow path between two rows of evergreen trees. I was certain bears prowled there at night, yet I knew animals were safer than those barbaric Nazis. I’d blast cold water on myself during showers, preparing myself for horrific punishments that would surely be meted out. It would take a long time before I realized my “preparations” were laughable. And yet the fighting spirit burned.

On my father’s side, my grandfather rose from poverty by opening a successful cleaning business. In those days preceding Pampers, he would pick up and launder cloth diapers. As family lore has it, a businessman once approached him, inviting him to join as partner of a new, up-and-coming industry: disposable diapers. Prideful and fiercely independent, he kicked the man out of his store, insistent such an outlandish idea would never succeed.

I don’t believe Grandpa ever regretted his decision. He’d fought to build his business, he would continue to fight.